The tavern was alive with murmurs, the air thick with the scent of old wood and stronger ale. At the center of the commotion sat an old man, draped in a tattered cloak embroidered with sigils of a forgotten Summoner. His eyes flickered like dying embers as he placed a single, worn card onto the table.
"Care for a wager?" he rasped, his voice like dry parchment.
I hesitated. The Splinterlands were not kind to the reckless, and bets made in shadowy corners rarely ended well. Yet, something about the card called to me. The intricate etching of a warrior wreathed in storm clouds, his eyes alive with untamed lightning—this was no ordinary summon.
“I play,” I said, placing my own card beside his.
A hush fell over the tavern. With a flick of his wrist, the old Summoner whispered an incantation. The room seemed to twist, the candlelight flickering in unnatural patterns. My vision blurred, and then—
We were on the battlefield.
The world around me roared with elemental fury. Monsters of fire and ice clashed in the distance, and above them, a celestial beast loomed, waiting to be called. My opponent stood across the battlefield, younger now, his cloak glowing with power.
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